


Signs

by ignipes



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-24
Updated: 2005-07-24
Packaged: 2017-10-03 00:46:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignipes/pseuds/ignipes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"The teachers and I need to conduct a thorough search of the castle," Professor Dumbledore told them as Professors McGonagall and Flitwick closed all doors into the hall.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Signs

_No sign of him._

Nearly-Headless Nick drifts through a wall and gravely reports the news. Remus nods, steps out of the passageway into the fourth floor corridor, and closes the mirror.

Blocked, empty, forgotten.

_No sign of him._

Lips pursed, strands of hair escaping from the trim bun, Professor McGonagall pauses beside the statue of the one-eyed crone. Somewhere in the castle, a clock strikes midnight, and the shadows in her eyes deepen. They have barely begun searching the castle; there are dozens of rooms and corridors yet to go. All Saints' Day. The hallows' vigil is over; the solemnity has begun.

Remus nods without a word and turns away. He feels her eyes on his back until he turns a corner. His footsteps echo in the silence, Peeves' voice dancing in his mind: _nas-ty-temp-er-nas-ty-temp-er._ The portraits are quiet and wary, whispering amongst themselves.

Nasty temper he's got, that Sirius Black.

_No sign of him._

The trick brick in the first floor corridor has long since been replaced with a perfectly harmless brick, but he checks anyway. The hidden passage is still there, behind a wall, beneath a floor, shrouded in darkness. A gentle draught still carries the scent of baking bread from the kitchens. The Intruder Charm has not been tampered with and there is no sign that anybody has entered the passageway in years.

When he leaves, the bricks slide noisily back into place, stone grinding on stone. He pretends he can't hear his own memories.

_No sign of him._

A brief stop in the Great Hall. Students slumber all around, soft snoring purple caterpillars. The Head Boy is leaning sleepily against the staff table; Professor Vector is speaking to Professor Flitwick in the corner, their voices quiet and quick. They fall silent when he approaches.

_No sign of him._

There used to be a song about the passageway behind the cupboard on the sixth floor -- _slow Marian Tubbard, locked in the cupboard, Davey Thick was quicker, off went her knickers_\--

He checks the passage, finds it empty, then tests the alarms and reinforces the spells with such force that two buckets fall from a shelf and the wood of the back wall cracks.

A song and a dare. _Thirty points from Gryffindor, Mr. Black. Yes, thirty! Do you expect me to believe you were only in there to search for a broom -- I hardly see what's so amusing!_ Bloody stupid song, didn't even rhyme properly.

He replaces the buckets with a flick of his wand, repairs the boards, and shuts the door so firmly the air in the corridor shudders.

It was a stupid song anyway.

_No sign of him_.

He emerges from the passageway outside the library to find Severus Snape waiting. Black robes, sneer, a single raised eyebrow and a casual comment: _Oh, Lupin, now I understand._ Remus marvels at Snape's memory, the peculiarity of details ensnared in that trap. _I once believed it was a vanishing trick._ Both men glance toward the end of the corridor. A faint shadow of soot still darkens the mortar between the stones. _I always gave you too much credit for clever escapes._

Remus says nothing. He walks away, wand still gripped in his left hand, silently repeating the incantation to himself. When cast properly -- by somebody with more experience than a handful of revenge-seeking thirteen-year-old wizards -- it does considerably more damage than simply burning away the target's clothing, and it leaves considerably more behind than a whisper of ash on stone.

_No sign of him._

Somewhere in the castle, somewhere far overhead, a clock strikes five. The house-elves greet him cheerfully and scurry to make tea, but he ignores them. The wine cellar is cool, dark, and empty. The last bottle of Darkhallow 1914 remains untouched. Smooth rich earthy bold. A bitter aftertaste that increases with age.

_No sign of him._

The sun is rising, but the steel-grey clouds hide it well. He stands just out of reach of the Willow's flailing branches, a long stick in hand. Sometime during the night it began to rain, and the ground beneath the Willow is a sodden mess, churned up by the branches, pockmarked with tufts of dead grass and hollows of water.

Footprints are a language in which he knows only a few words, and he sees familiar ghosts everywhere. It is as if a pack of large black dogs raced across the grounds, trampled every inch of soil, every depression filling with cold grey morning rain, every shadow in the dull, drowning earth. Everywhere and nowhere. Twenty-four hours without sleep are catching up to him, and he no longer trusts his own eyes.

He raises the stick and darts forward, aiming for the knot at the base of the Willow. He is not as quick as he used to be; the tree lands a few indignant, bruising smacks across his back before it freezes. He slides gracelessly into the tunnel, collecting mud and rotting leaves in his shoes, on his robe, in his hair.

The air in the tunnel is damp and cold, and in the weak wandlight he can see that nothing has changed. He walks swiftly at first, but gradually his pace slows and his heart quickens. He cannot tell if there are pawprints in the tunnel. He sees only mud and roots, his own clumsy feet, the hem of his own tattered robes.

He feels the ground slope upward and does not let himself pause when he reaches the door. Draws his wand, takes a breath, enters.

The Shack is silent and dark. Scant sunlight filters through the grime on the windows, and the old house creaks and groans, a greeting both familiar and alien. His careful, quiet steps stir up swirls of dust, dancing apparitions, and he sees no footprints besides his own. Here, too, nothing has changed. Claw marks rip across wood; curtains and upholstery lie in tatters. A rich, musky smell drifts underneath the dust and stillness.

His mind is flickering with memory, scattered scenes and images and impressions, flashes of sound and colour, the fleeting sensation of pain. There, he awoke with two broken arms and waited miserably for Madam Pomfrey to arrive. Here, the remains of a chair in which human scent was always too strong. There, a crack in the floorboards where a careless stag could catch his hoof.

Remus climbs the staircase cautiously, wary of the rotting boards and loose banister. The dirt on the steps is undisturbed; nobody has been here in years. But he climbs anyway and searches each room methodically.

There, the piano that shattered with such a thundering crash the villagers were talking about it for months. Here -- _jarred awake, sudden motion, whispers, sorry Moony didn't mean to_ \-- a mouldy bed with a shredded mattress and a faded crimson blanket. There -- _bed sinking under weight, whispered healing charms not quite perfected_ \-- an old towel, stained with blood, now the colour of dirt. Here -- _a welcome warmth against his back, a hesitant hand ghosting along a scar on his side_ \-- a single discarded Gryffindor tie in a tangle on the floor.

He rubs a clear spot on one window and looks out into the bleak November morning. The rain is still falling, and on the road he sees the dark shape of a single dementor, floating away from the village toward the school. He watches until it vanishes into the forest; a flock of birds takes flight as it passes, rising in a dizzying spiral of panic and protest.

Turning away from the window, Remus hurries down to the ground floor of the Shack and into the tunnel. He pulls the door firmly shut behind him and strides away quickly, stumbling on exposes roots and uneven ground but never slowing his pace. He emerges, gasping, from the base of the tree. One quick branch unfreezes and catches the side of his face. He fingers the scrape as he walks away from the Willow, pressing against the unbleeding wound to feel the slight sting.

Rain patters gently on the trees, dripping through to the ground, a distant muttering chorus of leaves and earth and water. Remus stands at the edge of the forest, shivering slightly as cold water trickles down his neck. The forest is still shadowed and dark, protected from the meagre morning light. He pockets his wand and idly brushes a few dead leaves from his filthy robes.

"I know you're in there," he says. His voice is low and hoarse, but even to his own ears it sounds like a childish taunt. "I know you're--"

He stops abruptly.

In the mud, just in front of him, there is a single paw-print.

He watches the print slowly fill with rain, the edges softening and crumbling, the mud seeping back into anonymity.

Then he turns and walks back to the castle. He meets the headmaster on the front steps. Suddenly aware of his mud-streaked clothing and ragged appearance, Remus self-consciously brushes his damp hair back from his face.

"I trust you had no more luck than we did?" Dumbledore asks. When Remus merely shakes his head, he continues, "I suspect he is hiding in the forest. The dementors are searching." He meets Remus' eyes for a second, then looks away with an unreadable expression on his face.

Remus follows Dumbledore's glance but sees nothing on the rain-soaked grounds.

Looking back at the headmaster, he lies easily. "I didn't find any sign of him."


End file.
